


Cicada Song

by Adrenalineshots



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Medical Procedures, The Cardinal is a sneaky bastard, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 06:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8361715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots
Summary: It was a lovely evening camping under the stars until it became a race to save Aramis' life.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jackfan2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackfan2/gifts).



> In the middle of all the craziness of the final days before the Musketeers' big bang starts posting (look for it on November 14!), I could not leave Jackfan2's birthday go by without sending a little bit of Aramis whump her way. 
> 
> And because she is a truly wonderful person, not only did she wished to share this with the rest of you, but she also was a darling and beta-ed it!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

It came out of nowhere, without any provocation.

 

One minute they were happily mocking d'Artagnan's poor cooking abilities and the next Aramis' hand was at his neck and he was falling sideways without uttering a single sound.

 

“What the hell?” Porthos let out from his place at the marksman's side, one hand flying for his pistol, the other holding on to his friend's waist, stopping his complete descent towards the dirty ground.

 

D'Artagnan and Athos had jumped to their feet, each with pistols in one hand, the other holding a burning log raised high, searching the darkness for whatever had caused their friend's fall.

 

The woods were as quiet and empty as they had appeared when they had chosen that particular spot to make camp for the night. The cicadas, undisturbed in their nightly songs, were the only sound that they could hear.

 

A moment went by, breaths poised and ears sharp, as all three of them waited for an encore of the attack, almost hoping for one, as it would help them pinpoint where the enemy was.

 

The enemy, however, didn't seemed invested in finishing the job. Or, they realized with a collective sinking heart, the job was already finished.

 

“Aramis?”

 

Porthos' gentle voice, a tone they scarcely heard when he was sober, broke the tense silence that had fallen over their camp. More disturbing than the big man's tone, however, was the lack of answer that followed.

 

Athos exchanged a quick look with d'Artagnan, asking of him what he could not ask of himself in that situation. _Remain vigil while I check on Aramis_ , his eyes said, begged. The Gascon, to his credit, merely nodded, casting one last concerned look towards their fallen companion before returning his attention to the dark woods.

 

Athos' legs felt like lead as he walked the short distance that separated him from Porthos and Aramis. Two steps that might as well be a whole abysm, for all that he wanted to avoid what stood at the other end.

 

The light of the burning fire, however, was no friend of delusions and pipe dreams.

 

Porthos had both his hands around the marksman's neck, Aramis' hand trapped between his, a surreal image that made it look as if he was trying to steal the marksman's life rather than save it, were it not for the amount of blood covering their intertwined fingers.

 

Sticking out from the midst of red and fingers, there was a short, black piece of steel. A crossbow's bolt. The weapon of a silent assassin.

 

Athos gasped, falling to his knees beside his friends. Years of being tutored in the arts of war, history and politics; years of battles and serving in the Musketeer's regiment and yet, none of that seemed to be helping now, as he stared helplessly at one of his best friends, his brother, bleeding to death in the middle of a God-forsaken forest.

 

“Easy, Aramis,” Porthos broken voice sounded again. “You're good... everything's going to be just fine,” he kept on mumbling, over and over again. The hands covering Aramis' neck trembled life green leaves, as the strongest amongst them tried to use as little strength as he could to put pressure on top of a wound that could hardly take any pressure at all.

 

A gurgling sound answered him, startling Athos. He looked up, away from the gory sight of bloody fingers, only to find Aramis' eyes opened, staring back at them.

 

He looked terrified.

 

Athos could count along the fingers of one hand the number of times he had seen Aramis afraid of anything. And the large majority of those times, he had been afraid for _one of them_ , never for himself.

 

To see him now, looking so utterly lost and scared, made Athos realize that his own fear and terror could not take hold at that moment. Right then, right now, he needed to push his own feelings aside and become what his brothers needed him to be. A leader.

 

“Pull your fingers away for a moment, Porthos,” he commanded, as steady as his voice was able. Still, the words came out sounding weak and tremulous. “We need to see the damage.”

 

Porthos tore his gaze away from the wounded man to look at Athos, a silent plea in his eyes. There were unshed tears in those dark pools, Athos could see them clearly, reflecting the flames of fire. Tears and the desperate need to know that, were he to take his fingers away from the wound, Aramis would not simply fade away.

 

It was a promise that Athos could not offer. What he did know for sure was that, if nothing was done, their friend would be dead in a matter of minutes. “Porthos... we need to _see_.”

 

The big man nodded, reluctantly moving his hands away from Aramis' neck to place them on his face, bloody fingers painting gory lines along his cheeks.

 

It was a good thing that he did so, for Aramis who had been quiet and cooperative until then, grew agitated and restless at the feeling of blood flowing freely from his neck.

 

“No, no, no,” Porthos begged, his hands trapping Aramis' face, stilling his movements as gently as he could. “Look at me, brother,” he called out, capturing the wounded man's terrified eyes. “I got you, 'Mis,” he whispered, his words wet with emotion. “I got you.”

 

Selfishly, Athos wished that there was someone there to comfort him as well. Now that he could see the wound, he needed all the reassuring words that one could muster.

 

It was ugly.

 

The bolt had struck to the left of Aramis' Adam's apple, close enough to his throat that each frantic swallow the marksman's took, made the black piece of steel bounce sideways in a sickening manner.

 

There was blood pouring out, a large measure of it, but it was sluggish and dark red, nearly black. The absence of bright red blood gushing out was a good thing, Athos told himself, the only good thing he could think of on such hellish night.

 

“I need to pull it out,” he voiced, some of it for Porthos' benefit, for he would have to prevent Aramis from moving away, but most of it for his own purpose. Maybe if his ears heard it from his mouth, then perhaps his brain might be more easily convinced that this was the best course of action. His brain, however, was too busy listing the reasons why he should not do it, mainly because it would be the death of Aramis.

 

“Wait!” d'Artagnan call out, his eyes on the watch but his ears clearly following everything else. “Let me get a blade in the fire first,” he pointed out.

 

Athos closed his eyes, pushing two trembling fingers against the closed lids. _Stupid... so stupid!_ How could he have forgotten about that? So intent had he been on removing the source of Aramis' pain that he had completely forgotten about what should be done next.

 

When he opened his eyes again, stars bursting at the edge of his vision, he could sense Porthos' gaze upon him.

 

“We're not thinking straight,” the big man told him, absolving Athos even as he wore the same guilty look in his expression. “We're just not thinking straight...” he whispered again, returning his eyes to the wounded man.

 

Aramis had quieted some. Thinking straight or not, none of them could be fooled by the illusion that the marksman's apparent peacefulness and acceptance of what was happening to him was a good thing.

 

The wetness coating the dirt underneath them, soaking their breeches, was a testament of how much blood Aramis had already lost. He wasn't being stoic... they were just running out of time.

 

“Here,” d'Artagnan announced, pressing his _main gauche_ towards Athos' hand. The tip of the metal was glowing bright red.

 

Athos nodded, not because he agreed with a single action of what was happening -of what was about to happen- but to hide the panic in his eyes. “Help Porthos,” he managed to whisper, his voice sounding hoarse and crushed.

 

The former Comte's faith in religion left much to be desired, so he begged no help from God or offered Him any silent prayers. Instead, he searched Aramis' eyes, asking for his forgiveness for what he was about to do.

 

Aramis was no longer looking at any of them, his gaze wandering aimlessly between their faces and the starry sky above. What he could actually see, was anyone's guess, but Athos knew he would find no forgiveness there.

 

Taking a deep breath, Athos gathered to himself all of his courage and love for his brother. He gripped the bolt tightly with his left hand, the dagger in his right ready to be used.

 

Resisting the urge to yank the bolt loose, for he feared that such action might cause more harm than good, Athos forced himself to pull gently.

 

The metal was slippery from the blood coating it and Athos cursed as the bolt kept evading his efforts to be pulled free from Aramis' neck.

 

The marksman, despite his growing weakness, moved more effortlessly than the bolt, legs and arms fighting what he could only understand as a vicious attack for all the pain it was causing him.

 

“Steady! Hold him steady!” Athos found himself shouting. It wasn't the others fault that the bolt refused to break its hold, nor was it Aramis' fault that instinct told him to escape torture, but he could hardly scream at himself or at a piece of metal.

 

The blasted piece of steel went from not moving an inch to being released from Aramis' neck in a fleeting moment. Athos barely had the time to realize that he was holding the bolt in his left hand before his right hand was moving in its own volition.

 

Blood was pouring freely from the hole left behind, precious blood that Aramis could ill afford to lose and Athos just acted, clear of all thought and emotion.

 

The tip of the blade pressed against the wound with a sizzling sound, blood congealing and hissing at the heated touch.

 

Aramis bolted, a bloody scream tearing its way out of his mouth as his body tensed and arched ten inches away from the ground.

 

“Hold him!” Athos barked, grabbing onto the blade with both hands, blinking away the sweat running into his eyes. He would not have the strength left to submit Aramis to the same agony twice, so the wound needed to be closed successfully on the first try. “For God sake, hold him!”

 

For all of their sakes. For his own sanity.

 

An eternity passed until Aramis' body went limp and Athos finally pulled the blade away from his neck.

 

No one could speak or even breathe, the three conscious Musketeers left grief-struck, staring at each other and at the wounded brother in their midst.

 

The cicadas, selfish beasts that they were, kept on singing, as if nothing had happened.

 

Athos looked at the blade in his hand, the metal now cold and coated in dried blood. He tossed it away in disgust before looking back at Aramis.

 

He looked dead.

 

His face, usually tanned and filled with life, was grey and lax under the fire light. A Venetian mask of horror painted in black and white. The whole of him seemed devoid of color, in fact, except for the gory mess around his neck and chest. The wound, he could see, was no longer bleeding.

 

“Does he live?” d'Artagnan's voice broke the silence. He sounded on the verge of tears, the youthfulness of his tone making him sound like a lost boy.

 

Athos blinked, unsure how they could tell for certain. Aramis' neck looked too much of a mess for him to dare place his fingers any where there to check for a beating heart.

 

No. Instead, he went straight for the source.

 

Mindless of the blood covering the marksman's shirt, Athos laid his head over his chest. He could feel the heat from Aramis' skin through the linen of his shirt.

 

Athos closed his eyes, finally sending a silent prayer to a God he put little faith in, but one that seemed to love Aramis as much as he did. However, the sound of God's own voice, in that exact moment, would not have sounded near so sweet as the reassuring beat that Athos could hear inside Aramis' chest. Steady, strong.

 

Alive.

 

**~§~**

 

There was a loud, buzzing sound inside his brain. Annoying and dizzying and unwilling to give quarter. Cicadas.

 

Aramis opened his eyes, gasping as intense light attacked his eyes. The action only served to awaken a stabbing pain in his neck, making him tense, his heart racing.

 

“Easy,” Porthos deep voice came from his left, drowning the deafening sound of the bugs. “You with us?”

 

The question would seem ridiculous in any other circumstance, were it not for the fact that Aramis couldn't quite answer it in all honesty. He knew he was in the middle of a forest, mainly because he could see that they stood surrounded by trees, and he knew that there was something wrong with his neck because every breath he took hurt.

 

Anything other than that...

 

“You were injured,” Porthos supplied when his silence extended for too long. “Some bastard fired a crossbow from the dark and escaped before we could get our hands on him,” he supplied, his tone speaking of the unspeakable and painful things he had planned for the would-be assassin as soon as he did managed to get his hands on him.

 

“T-- o'ers?” Aramis rasped, wincing as the words made his throat feel like it had been set on fire.

 

“Hush, we're all fine,” Athos voice came from somewhere at his feet. “Don't try to speak just yet.”

 

Aramis crossed his eyes over his nose, trying to look at the older man without moving his neck. From the blurry image he could glimpse, Athos looked as well as he felt. “W--?”

 

Taking pity on his plight, Athos moved closer, standing to his side, a cup of water in his hands. “The bolt struck your neck,” he voiced, looking at everywhere but the wounded man's face. “I don't believe it hit your throat, but the swelling will probably make it difficult for you to speak for the next few days.”

 

“A blessing, some might say,” Porthos pitch in, desperate to lighten the mood ever so slightly.

 

Aramis smiled tiredly as he swallowed the water carefully, inclined to agree with Athos. While painful, he was still able to do it, which meant that his throat was probably intact. What he could see shattered, however, was his friend's heart.

 

Weakly, he reached out for Athos' hand. His fingers felt cold and numb, but he was certain that it was not the iciness of his touch that startled his friend. Still, he would not let go of his grip until Athos met his eyes. “'m f'ne,” he whispered, ignoring the pain and agony the words caused. This was more important. “Th'k 'u.”

 

Athos nodded, fortunately offering no argument. Aramis doubted that he had the strength to say anything else.

 

He knew all too well what it was like to be on the other side, to be the one to cause pain and maim to save a life. It was never easy and, when things went well, the reward was to stare at the results of your decisions and your actions for the rest of your life, knowing that this and that scar was there because you put it there.

 

It was never easy. But he would never stop being grateful for it.

 

The end.

 

 

 


End file.
